


Twelves

by Amemait



Series: But One Twelfth Of Madness [1]
Category: Slings & Arrows
Genre: GFY, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amemait/pseuds/Amemait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for series 3.</p><p>Richard sits behind his desk, snug in his cozy chair and far away from a dead man and his living puppet, and tilts his head back slightly, so that the light hits his glasses just so and hides every emotion his eyes might give away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelves

Richard doesn’t sleep well any more.  
  
He tosses, he turns, he tries to rest, but he comes in every day with bloodshot eyes behind his glasses.  
  
He still can’t wear contacts, and it’s driving him mad.  
  
One night, one night he takes Nigel home with him.  
  
They don’t speak, but Nigel rubs his back and holds him close as Richard sobs and cries and finally, finally, sleeps.  
  
When he wakes up, Nigel is gone.  
  
\--  
  
A few weeks ago, he found the pot.  
  
The last of his stash – all there ever was, really – tucked away, still close to his dayplanner. His dayplanner, of all things.  
  
It’s with a feeling of finality that he hands it to Darren. Passing it over the dead man’s skull that sits on the desk, glaring up at him.  
  
Darren takes it.  
  
“I’ve never approved of drugs,” he says, the affected drawl that typically infects his words taking on a quietly concerned note.  
  
Richard stares down at Oliver’s skull, and Oliver doesn’t offer any suggestions.

Just as well.  
  
Darren watches him carefully.  
  
“I’ll have this disposed of.”  
  
\--  
  
Nigel’s watching him carefully, that same careful look, all the way through rehearsal, and he won’t stop almost-touching Richard. It would drive him insane, if he didn’t feel that he was almost already there.  
  
That morning he’d almost left the house with his collar half-tucked in under his jacket, and as he’d looked through the giftshop he’d suddenly decided to order all of the ‘Art’ cups put away into boxes in the back.  
  
\--  
  
He spots Darren in the park, reading aloud, but quietly. The book in his hands is well-thumbed and barely glanced at; instead, he is watching the swans.  
  
“ _Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends._  
 _Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,_  
 _That old and antique song we heard last night:_  
 _Methought it did relieve my passion much,_  
 _More than light airs and recollected terms_  
 _Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:_  
 _Come, but one verse._ ”  
  
Darren looks up then, and smiles tightly at him, tucking the book away neatly into his fashionably pre-destroyed messenger bag.  
  
Richard still feels like he’s intruding, and doesn’t stay to talk long.  
  
\--  
  
Once, he thought he spotted Anna in the street. He ran up to say hello, to say he was sorry, but she turned and it wasn’t her.  
  
Richard still doesn’t know if he really would have apologised, or if he simply feels that’s what polite society would expect him to do.  
  
\--  
  
Nigel takes him out drinking, not talking. Richard doesn’t quite have the heart to tell him that he’s given up. He’s not sure how well that would go down.

And then he notices that Nigel’s just a bit too sober too. And that makes him cheer up, just for a moment.  
  
He drops Nigel off at his new apartment, and almost asks to stay the night, but Nigel’s not quite looking him in the eye, and Richard knows he can’t hurt him like that again.  
  
Instead, he pats Nigel on the shoulder and whispers that he’ll see him at work tomorrow.  
  
Nigel calls in sick the next day.  
  
\--  
  
Predictably, he can’t figure out how to turn off the light in his car. The trunk and all the doors are closed, the switch is off, it shouldn’t be working like this.  
  
“Help?” He asks, almost tentatively.  
  
This time, it’s a different girl who answers the automated call to the BMW help desk, and Richard isn’t quite sure if he’s relieved or saddened.  
  
He decides on being both, and the problem is solved quickly.  
  
\--  
  
The Board is delighted with his proposition to do another Shakespeare. After two seasons, it might almost feel good to have a play, and not a musical, in the main hall of New Burbage festival.  
  
“And which of the Bard’s works shall I be permitted to dissemble, pray?” Darren asks, words carefully chosen as ever.  
  
Richard sits behind his desk, snug in his cozy chair and far away from a dead man and his living puppet, and tilts his head back slightly, so that the light hits his glasses just so and hides every emotion his eyes might give away.  
  
“Twelfth Night.”  
  
Darren smiles, almost childlike, for a bare instant, then tilts his own head, eyes curious behind glasses that Richard realises are strikingly similar to his own.  
  
“Why that play, Richard?”  
  
Richard fumbles for a moment, then brightens.  
  
“I thought it was time we did a Shakespeare that wasn’t a Tragedy.”  
  
Richard wonders if he believes his own words, but decides that the nod Darren gives him is enough.  
  
He’s picking Nigel up at seven, and there’s work to get done before then.  
\--  
exeunt

**Author's Note:**

> Endnotes: Of course, when Richard passed the pot to Darren he was technically committing the offence of Trafficking, but Darren just went off and flushed it down the toilet.


End file.
